To Be Confirmed
by ReaderFOUR
Summary: Meet Amy Reading, survivor of Oceanic 815. Excerpt: "I thought the island cured me," she would write into her journal later, "but I now realised there'd been nothing to show me. It was biding its time. This island was full of the unexpected." Ben/OC R&R!
1. Chapter 1 Thoughts And Visions

**SUMMARY:**

Meet Amy Reading, survivor of Oceanic 815. Excerpt: _"I thought the island cured me," she would write into her journal later, "but I now realised there'd been nothing to show me. It was biding its time. This island was full of the unexpected." _Ben/OC R&R

**DISCLAIMER:**

I do not own LOST, or any of its affiliated charcters/settings/yadda yadda... even if I really like to think I do. *cries*

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

This is my first try at writing LOST fanfiction, but hopefully not my last. Saying that, it's up to you guys. Well, it isn't, but I like to give you people the false idea of power over my writing. Only joking; you lovely lot are the motivation to keep writing – read and review, please!

In keeping with the style of LOST, some things may not make sense right now, but will later... (Note for other LOST writers: this is as good as it gets in the way of excuses for any plot discrepancies!) ... Always assuming I remember to make them make sense.

Also, I would like to introduce you to one Amy Reading, my OC. She's very eager to meet you.

Well, I've rambled on enough. Want more rambling? Join a hiking club!

Ladies and gentlemen, take your seats.

The lights go off, the curtains are drawn back... and so our show begins...

* * *

"_Mom," A small girl races through to the kitchen and tugs at her mother's back. "Mom, grandma's hurt. She fell down, had accident."_

She'd seen her fall down the stairs. She had tumbled down them after slipping on a magazine that lay at the top of them. All the way to the bottom, landing there like a thrown doll.

_The girl's mother turns from the cooker, holding her spatula like a weapon. She points it at the girl and frowns. _

"_Amy Reading. What have I told you about stories?"_

_Amy shakes her head frantically, her brown eyes wide in her face as she stares at her mother. The woman's hair is tied up in a loose ponytail, some short strands framing her face. She blows a strand from her forehead exasperatedly as Amy watches her._

"_No story. Grandma's hurt." Amy feels her bottom lip begin to tremble as she wills her mother to believe her. "Sore back, mom."_

She'd been lying there, unmoving. Bent at a funny angle, groaning softly.

"_Amy," when her mother finally speaks, her voice is laced with warning. She looks angry. "That's not a nice thing to say. Don't make up stories."_

_Mom looks angry –Amy feels angry. She doesn't believe her. Amy is only telling her what she saw. She feels tears welling up. "No story!" Amy shouts, clenching her fists and staring at her mother resolutely, "Grandma hurt!"_

Grandma broken. Grandma in pain. Grandma hurting. She had had to tell someone.

"_Amy!" now Mom's angry too; Amy hears it in her voice, sees it in her face, and feels it in her hand as she grabs Amy's too tightly and pulls her over to the phone. She punches in a number, all the while staring at her daughter with a firm expression._

"_Hello, mom," Her voice is falsely cheerful, in sharp contrast to the angry eyes that stare at Amy now. Amy feels herself shrink back from her mother's gaze, and she tries to twist her hand from the tight grip. _

"_I've got a young lady here that wants to say hello to you..."_

_Amy doesn't want to say hello. She wants to say 'told you so'. She wants grandma to be hurt, as selfish as it is, so Mom can see she's right. _

Now, Amy realises she should have warned her. At four years old, she simply did not have the capability of knowing how to handle it.

_The phone is passed to Amy._

"_Hello, darling," comes her grandma's soft voice, "Are you being good for mommy?"_

_Amy shakes her head, not allowing herself to believe that her grandma's okay when she's seen her broken beyond repair, and drops the phone at her feet. No. This is not right. Grandma is hurt._

"_Grandma... fall... sore...." Her quiet voice, too small, too unsure, probably can't be heard in the mouthpiece of the phone. _

_Mom bends and scoops the phone up as Amy hears her grandma speaking on it. "Sorry, she's been being a little funny today. I thought she'd like to speak to you, but you know how kids are..."_

Lies, mother, thinks Amy, and you know it. At least, you did afterwards.

_Amy takes her mind away from this conversation, this impossibility. She sees, in her head, grandma falling, and grandma breaking. Now she hears her speaking to her mother on the phone. _

_Too soon, her mother ends the conversation with grandma. She turns back to Amy and pulls her through to the kitchen. There is smoke. Something is burning. Amy's mother gasps and heads for the cooker. She empties a jug of water onto the contents of the frying pan that has caught fire. There is more smoke, and the oil hisses like an angry snake. She turns back to Amy._

"_Look what you did, Amy. I told you not to tell stories, didn't I?" She sighs angrily and shakes her head. "Supper's going to be late now. That's where not listening gets you."_

A week later, her mom received a phone call. Grandma had slipped on a magazine and fell down the stairs. She was dead. That's where not listening gets you, mom, thought Amy.

I told you so, mom, sings Amy's four-year-old self, I told you so.

She'd broken her spine in two places, and died because no one was there to help her. Because no one knew anything was wrong.

That's when her mother knew Amy was different. She was scared of her from then on. To be honest, Amy was scared of herself. Mom found her when she ended the call that brought the news of grandma's death. There was fear in her eyes - fear and sorrow and regret. Amy didn't say anything to her because she didn't need to. Her mother didn't say anything because she didn't know what to say.

That day, Amy's mother realised where not listening got her. And Amy realised where telling someone got her. That's when she realised she had this... well, call it a gift, if you will, which is a strange thing to call something that is not welcomed, or wanted or even pleasant.

No, it is not a gift. It is... a difference that keeps her apart, thinks Amy. A difference that has confused her and left her unable to conform to society, with her peers, with anyone.

It is the difference that put her on Oceanic flight 815. She saw herself on that plane, and knew it would happen. Because everything happens; not logically, not always pleasingly, but things happen as she sees them. This was something she learned at a young age, and something she cannot forget.

She hesitates before describing this... ability. She has tried before to write things down, to structure out her thoughts on it but to no avail. Perhaps because she does not have the capability to describe it – perhaps she is as incapable as a child is when it comes to this.

It happens mostly during waking hours, although sometimes she wakes up knowing she's seen something. She tends to write these visions into her journal. It's not often and not frequently that she blacks out fully. Mostly she just _sees_ something. Like, that flicker of a picture when you flick through television channels really quickly. Sometimes, it's like watching a movie playing in slow motion. Sometimes it's as if you're there, unable to help, unable to move or interfere. Sometimes she gets a sense of a name, a place, a smell, a taste, an emotion.

Every time, it's confusing. Frightening, even.

They don't happen logically. When she sees something in the future, sometimes the visions and then their happening will be within the space of a few hours, sometimes a few weeks, and other times there are years between the vision and the actual happening. When it's the past, it can be recent, or years ago. Sometimes it's the present, but in a different location. That is what frightens her most: the uncertainty.

Sometimes she sees the past, sometimes the future... but she doesn't feel special. She feels strange, awkward, out of place.

She realises she uses the word "sometimes" far too much when she tries to describe her ability. But that's the thing – it's not predictable, none of it happens conventionally. And it's all about times. She's just stuck between times, being shown how things go.

She wasn't shown the crash; she was as surprised as the rest of the passengers. She didn't see anything for weeks on the island. She thought she was over it. She could behave normally, what she thought was something only other people could do – a belief she had grown up with.

For a few weeks, she found she was happy with her circumstances. She didn't know what the future held. She was stranded on a desert island with unexplained mysteries and monsters but... it was present. She didn't know what would happen next, which to some may seem like a negative thing. But, living her life as it is, she knows it is not. It is better to take things as they come.

Others may not understand this, thinks Amy, but what is the point in knowing what will happen when you can't change it? When it will happen anyway, regardless? It's like being an unimportant extra in a movie – you get the script, you know what will happen but you don't really matter. You do what's in the script and nothing more.

So yes, she was happy on the island. She felt cured. She was making friends. She was accepted.

And then, then she _saw_ something. Lying in her tent, in the darkness, noticing there was a hole in the corner that she would need to fix, noticing she could see the stars through it, and how pretty they looked...

Her eyes snapped shut and her breathing grew heavy, but she was not sleeping.

_There was fear, and surprise, she could feel them._

_She saw, could almost feel, as if it was tangible, the movement of a trap being set off, a man being dragged up and strung up from the tree._

_The net, swinging; a cry of surprise._

_A man's shout for help._

_For some reason, the importance of this man seemed to be impressed into her. Important, something told her, this man was important._

_Orange? Something was orange._

Her eyes snapped open. Her breathing was low and rasping. She felt exhausted.

Deep down, she supposed she had known that she wouldn't fit in. That she would always be different. She had hoped against hope that ... this would not happen. Just when she felt accepted.

"I thought the island cured me," she would write into her journal later, "but I now realised there'd been nothing to show me. It was biding its time. This island was full of the unexpected."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

I don't really like this first chapter, but I wanted to give a bit of background to the character. I have the next chapter typed up, and depending on reviews, will submit it for your judgement/enjoyment.

READ & REVIEW!


	2. Chapter 2 Uneasy Trust

**DISCLAIMER:  
**I do not own LOST or any of its affiliated characters, settings... and the rest of it, even if I really really want Ben. Amy Reading is mine though; aren't I lucky?

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:  
**Chapter 2, with some _happenings_. Ooh! If you are reading this, I'd love to hear what you think of it – so drop a review to let me know you're there. Thank you to all of you who have already left reviews, or put alerts on this story or favourites or whatever. There's nothing better than logging into my e-mail and reading nice things. :) THANK YOU!

* * *

_There was fear, and surprise, she could feel them._

_She saw, could almost feel, as if it was tangible, the movement of a trap being set off, a man being dragged up and strung up from the tree._

_The net, swinging; a cry of surprise._

_A man's shout for help._

_For some reason, the importance of this man seemed to be impressed into her. Important, something told her, this man was important._

_Orange? Something was orange._

As soon as Amy had seen it, she knew it was something that had just happened. Quickly getting her breath back, she ran a hand over her tired face. Throwing back her sheet, she pulled on a pair of jeans and a sleeveless t-shirt, before tying her hair up into a tight ponytail. She shrugged into one of the loose striped shirts she had salvaged from the wreckage, and buttoned it quickly. Grabbing a bottle of water, a few bandages just in case, and a mango from the few that she'd picked earlier, she began packing a small backpack. Securing the straps tightly, she scanned her tent for anything else she would need. She slipped her hand under her blanket and brought out her journal, which she shoved quickly into the open front pocket of the backpack before slinging it over one shoulder. With a wince, she bent down and started digging into the sand with her hands. After a few moments of digging, she uncovered the small handgun she had secreted there, wrapped in an old shirt. She hurriedly shook the sand off it, and loaded it with the stolen ammunition from the shirt's pocket. Flicking the safety catch on, she tucked it into her belt, pulling her t-shirt down to cover it. Straightening, she moved to the doorway of her tent.

She was careful not to make too much noise as she drew back the canvas of her makeshift tent and stepped out. The fires were still burning softly, and the sea was calm. The camp was quiet; not even Claire was awake with Aaron. She figured Jack and Locke must be down in the hatch, but everyone else seemed to have settled down for the night. Amy picked up one of the crude torches she'd helped make earlier that day, and tip-toed over to the fire. It took more than one attempt to get it to light, and she hissed in alarm when it crackled into life. Spinning around guiltily, she waited to see if anyone had woken. The silence continued, and Amy let out a deep breath.

Carefully making her way to the edge of the jungle, she kept furtively glancing round to see if anyone had woken. Seeing no one, she started into the greenery. There was a path of sorts now; after two months on the island their continued use of the forest had led to the plants underfoot being repeatedly trampled on and killed. There was a less obvious path that led to the hatch, and a more-used one that led to foraging sites and the waterfall. In the dark, it was hard to differentiate between plants and path, even with a light, but Amy didn't need to anyway – she knew exactly where she was headed.

She didn't mind being in the jungle, and mostly enjoyed it when she was part of the foraging parties. Not that they really needed to forage for food now, after the discovery of the hatch. However, fresh fruit was something many of the survivors had learned to enjoy during their time on the island, and it was still needed to stock up the DHARMA supplies. They didn't forage for food in the dark though. At night, the jungle was frightening, and she held the torch in front of her like a weapon, something that would ward off the evil she imagined lurked between the trees. And if that didn't work, thought Amy wryly, there's always the gun.

Not that she knew how to use it. Load it, yes, Jack had shown her how to do that weeks ago. It was the actual using that she was uncertain about. But surely it was just a case of pulling the trigger? She hoped it wouldn't come to finding out.

Amy stopped for a moment to get her bearings. She felt a bead of cold sweat trickle down her back; she shivered and clutched the torch tighter. The weight of the gun tucked into her belt was both reassuring and frightening. Confident on where she was headed, knowing it from what she'd seen, she walked hurriedly in the direction she knew was right.

It was little over an hour before she found the clearing. He was shouting; confused cries for help rang through the forest that she had heard yards away. The net still swung gently, and she could see his huddled figure in it.

"Hello?"

She moved closer, seeing the figure stumble to his knees in the cramped space. He pressed his face against the coarse rope as she made her way to the area, torch illuminating him. This was exactly as she'd seen it in her vision; she knew she was in the right place.

"Oh, thank God," he cried, voice shaky, "Get me down, please... please, I don't know how this happened ... I..." he stopped to take a breath, and seemed to compose himself. "My name is H-Henry Gale. Please, get me down... Help me!"

Holding the torch close enough to light his face up, Amy saw his wide blue eyes stared at her imploringly, big in his dirty face. Those eyes were piercing, intelligent, and it was a little unsettling to be the focus of them. His short hair was messy, dark strands sticking up in all directions. Her vision flashed across her memory; orange, what was orange? Peering closer, she saw the t-shirt he wore beneath his green jacket – orange.

"I'm Amy," she said slowly, still watching him, "Were you on the plane, Henry?" As soon as she said it, something else flashed across her vision.

_A submarine._

_A quiet young boy, an older man; a greeting from a friend._

_A submarine._

The man – Henry – was now staring at her with a frown. "Plane?" he said, his brow crinkled. "What plane?"

She winced and put a hand to her aching head. "No," she said softly, before raising her head and staring him dead in the eye, "But where did you get a submarine on a desert island?"

If something flickered in the man's eyes, if the blue orbs grew a little wider, the shock was gone as soon as she'd seen it, and his frown grew deeper. He shook his head quickly.

"No, no, we came in a balloon. I... I'm from Minnesota. We crashed here, in a balloon. A hot air balloon." His eyes were closed, his breathing loud. He seemed to be trying to control his emotions.

"We?" asked Amy sharply. She glanced around at the surrounding jungle and moved closer to the net. "Who else is here?"

"No-one. I came here with my wife." His voice was hard now; he seemed angry, regretful. His voice then turned into a tear-choked whine with his next words, his emotions showing. "She's... she died. She got _sick_." He let out a breath of air and opened his eyes, which were now bright with unshed tears.

"I'm sorry," said Amy quickly, meeting his eyes to show her sincerity. He nodded grimly, and then looked away. "How long have you been here?"

"We crashed four months ago." His voice wavered, and he shook the ropes he held tightly in his fists, "Please, please, _Amy_, please get me down."

Amy stared up at him, before driving the torch into the ground beside her. She swung the pack down from her shoulder and produced a bottle of water. Taking a sip, she offered it to the man in the net above her.

"Would you like a drink, Henry? Something to eat?"

"I'd like to get out of the net, Amy," came the sarcastic answer, but his voice held no spite, just weariness. He took the proffered bottle anyway, and gulped eagerly. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he muttered his thanks and handed the bottle back. Amy screwed the cap back on, and handed up a mango, which he bit into just as eagerly. Juice dribbled down his chin, and he dabbed at it with his free hand. Satisfied he was fine for the moment, Amy sat down on her haunches to rummage through her pack for something to cut the ropes with.

"Did you come on a plane?"

"Huh?" she looked up to find Henry looking at her curiously. "Er, yeah. We crashed about eight weeks ago."

He raised his eyebrows at that, but then turned his attention back to his mango. After a few bites, and seeing Amy had not yet found anything, he seemed impatient. "Are you going to get me out of here, or will I continue straining my vocal chords?"

A sharp bolt of pain cut through her head, and she cried out. She gripped her hands to either side of her head.

_Sayid, sawing at the rope._

_A dirty woman, warning him not to._

_This man, this Henry, running from them._

_Arrow._

_Shot._

_Pain._

_Blood._

With a great expulsion of breath, Amy came back to herself. She looked up in surprise to see Henry pressed against the ropes, an arm reaching towards her, his face shocked.

"Amy? Amy, what happened? Are you okay?" He sounded genuinely worried, and his arm still reached for her.

She pulled herself to her knees, and stared at the ground, rubbing her head.

"You wouldn't understand."

He laughed shortly, bitterly, and tossed the remains of his mango to the ground before her. "I don't think I understand anything on this island."

She swallowed, hard, and then looked up at him. "Henry, I can't get you out of there."

His face showed confusion; his hands gripped the rope so hard his knuckles turned white.

"You don't have a knife?" His face fell, and his voice changed to the desperate pleading she'd heard as she entered the clearing. "Oh, please, surely you have something, something with an edge, use a rock..."

She cut him off with a raised hand. "No, look, I'm... I'm sorry Henry, but this isn't what happens."

His voice grew higher, louder with frustration. "What do you mean? This isn't what happens? I'm stuck in a trap, damn it, but you don't cut me down—"

"Henry, look, someone else is going to come for you."

_The dirty French woman._

_Rousseau, was it?_

_Distrust, suspicion, fear._

"She'll be suspicious," she continued, "and she won't get you down, but she'll get someone else who will. They'll get you down." She sighed, deciding not to mention the fact he'd be shot, and pulled her pack back onto her shoulder. "They'll take you to our camp."

_The hatch._

_Surprise._

_Jack, cutting, then pulling, the arrow from his shoulder._

"How do you know?" he asked quickly. "Will you send them?" He was watching her carefully; those pale eyes wary, noticing the way she winced.

"No," she said hurriedly, pulling the torch from the ground. "They'll find you. Just trust me, Henry."

"Trust you?" his voice was close to incredulous. "You've just found me trapped in a net, you're able to get me down but you won't, and you expect me to _trust_ you? Why should I trust you?"

He was angry, and it was understandable. She knew he wouldn't trust her unless there was something, something she could tell him, prove to him... her next vision didn't make sense to her, but she had a feeling he'd be convinced by it.

_An x-ray. _

_A tumour._

_Shock, fear, lots of fear._

_Why did he get sick on the island, how was it possible?_

"You thought you couldn't get sick on the island." She said carefully, watching his face, "When did you find out about the tumour?"

"_When"_ wasn't the question she wanted to ask._ Why_ was the vision so recent – surely there weren't hospitals on this island? _How_ did you find out? _Who_ took an x-ray on an island?

She saw again that fleeting look of shock, the obvious surprise that came over his face before he gained control, and just stared at her blankly.

"What are you talking about?" He could have been an actor, thought Amy almost admiringly, but she'd seen what she needed. He was convinced; his doubt and fear would lead him to trust her. Not the greatest of trusts, but one that would keep him from telling, which was all she needed.

"Henry, they'll come and get you down. It can't be me." She shifted her bag on her shoulder, brushed her hair out of her face.

"But... how do you know? Amy, what's going on?" He was scared, that much she could see, but he was confused more.

"Just... look, don't tell them I was here. When they bring you back, I'll meet you, and I'll tell you everything, I promise," She met his eyes. "But you'll be meeting me _for the first time,_" she stressed.

"What's going _on_?" Henry's voice was weary, close to whiny, and she felt sorry for him.

Amy looked at him, really looked at him. "That's what I want to know." She kicked some leaves over the half-eaten fruit, hiding it. She turned on her heel and walked to the edge of the clearing before stopping. She did not turn round. "Remember, Henry, I wasn't here, and you don't know me. If you can act that as well as you acted not knowing what I was talking about when I asked about the tumour, you'll do brilliantly. Please, just trust me."

With that, she hurried back into the trees, the jungle swallowing her, and Henry's shouts echoing through the jungle shortly after she'd left him.

* * *

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

READ AND REVIEW, thank you very much. I'll give out cyber-hugs and love. Who knows, I might even cook up a big batch of cyber-cookies... :)


	3. Chapter 3 Getting Into Character

**DISCLAIMER:**

I do not own LOST or any of its affiliated characters, settings... and the rest of it, even if I _totally_ had the idea before any of those other guys did and they totally thieved my idea, idea-thieves that they are. Amy Reading is mine though; aren't I lucky?

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **

Chapter 3, in which more things happen. I'm not sure if I like this chapter... I did consider just setting it in with chapter two so that would be one big long chapter but I think it rather has to stand alone, as a preparatory chapter. Anyway, let me know what you think if you're reading – don't be shy! Thank you to all reviewers – you make my day shiny and happy and make me a shiny and happy person.  
PS - sorry for the long wait; my USB device decided to be mean. Yes, yes, it's a bad workman that blames his tools and all that... but rest assured the only bad workman in this story will be Roger. :D

* * *

It wasn't long before his shouts faded. She felt stupid, worthless that she couldn't cut him down, couldn't help him. He needed to be cut down by Sayid, needed to be shot. The journey back to the camp took about an hour, and she lingered in the trees, looking to see if anyone was awake. There was a slim figure sat beside the fire, poking it with a stick. Kate. Amy carefully set her backpack into a leafy shrub, and hid it from view. Strolling forwards, trying to act nonchalant, she made her way to her tent. As she crossed the beach, out of the corner of her eye she saw Kate stand up and start forwards.

"Amy!"

Amy turned around, feigning surprise.

"Oh, hi Kate. How are ya?" The young woman reached her, and looked suspiciously at the jungle and then her.

"Where have you been?"

Amy frowned, and looked at Kate quizzically. "Sorry, but my tent doesn't have an en-suite bedroom. In fact, it's quite lacking in any modern bathroom facilities."

Kate laughed softly, and looked at Amy with a smile.

"Okay, you got me there. I didn't hear you leave though."

Was that suspicion in Kate's voice? But of course, this young lady was always suspicious, always wary, and hesitant to trust. She felt a twinge in her head, as she saw something.

_Kate, handcuffed, sitting with a marshal on the plane._

Opening her eyes, she saw Kate regarding her with concern, her doubts forgotten. A criminal, Kate was a criminal – Amy wondered how many people knew.

"You okay?"

Amy tried to smile, and held a hand to her forehead.

"I'm fine; I've just got a migraine. I get them all the time." Kate smiled sympathetically. "Actually," continued Amy, an idea forming, "I think I might go down to the hatch and see Jack. He might have aspirin or something for me."

Kate nodded, and then looked at the dark trees. "Yeah, that's probably best. Want a little company?"

Amy shook her head, and waved off her concern. "I'll be fine, Kate. Thanks anyway."

"You sure?"

Yes, she was still suspicious, or perhaps she was just eager to see Jack.

"I'm sure," she confirmed. "I'll just be off then." She began to move away, towards her tent, and noticed that Kate did not move from where they had spoken until she was within her tent. Now that was a girl with issues.

Inside her tent, Amy cast about for anything she would need. She would tell Jack she hadn't been feeling right, and would appreciate a shift at the hatch, somewhere she could rest in peace. She rolled up her blanket and set it neatly in the corner of her tent. The remaining clothes she bundled under her arm with a few of her own books she'd managed to salvage from the wreckage of the plane. She glanced around for anything else she would need, and figured if she had forgotten anything the DHARMA supplies would most probably provide.

"Hell," she muttered, "They've probably got DHARMA-branded toilet roll... makes a change from bloody _leaves_."

She laughed at herself, and made her way out of her tent. Seeing her, Kate jogged over, causing Amy to stifle a groan.

"How's your head?"

No change since you last asked, thought Amy, which was oh, about four seconds ago...

Amy forced herself to smile politely; after all, the sympathy could be genuine. Kate seemed like a nice enough young woman, and the least she could do was be pleasant. After all, they had gotten on okay after the crash; Kate had even helped her rescue her books from the creek.

"It's fine, seriously, I'm used to them." She tried to hide the wince as the familiar feeling of a vision stole over her senses.

_A burning house._

_A sense of family._

_Murder._

Kate was watching her closely. "Are you sure you don't want me to come? I'll carry your stuff for you." She actually moved to take the things but Amy stepped backwards, avoiding her.

"No, no, really Kate. I'm fine."

Except that she was not. Except that she was in a hurry because tomorrow, tomorrow a man would be brought to the hatch that she would have to pretend she knew nothing about and he in return would have to pretend not to know her. Except that she thought she would never have to lie and sort out circumstances because of her ability, because she thought that it had ended. Finished. Gone, just a ghost in her past, but now come back to haunt her.

Kate's eyes were narrowed. Amy nodded at her, and turned on her heel before marching into the trees. She could feel Kate's eyes burning into her as she left, but did not turn back.

After picking up her backpack and bundling her stuff into it, Amy half-ran, half-stumbled through the jungle, headed for the hatch. She knew she had to be there when Henry was brought in. Rousseau would reach him in a few hours, and would get Sayid the next day. Seeing the hatch's doorway close to where she was, she breathed a sigh of relief and began to jog towards it. Pulling back the big metal door, she entered the hatch.

She moved quickly along the corridor, seeing how the dim light reflected eerily off Desmond's murals. When he reached the end of the corridor, she stopped and listened for movement.

"John?" she called, moving forwards again, "Jack?"

Jack appeared out of the bathroom, rubbing his hands with a towel. He nodded at her, and raised his eyebrows.

"Hey there, Amy."

"Hi, Jack," she smiled at him, and shifted her grip on her backpack. "I was just wondering, do you mind if I stay here for a while?" She frowned as she heard the low beeping that alerted Jack of the button. He darted across to the computer and clicked in the numbers; the timer rolled back and began counting again. He returned to her with an apologetic smile, and spread his hands.

"Fallen out with someone?"

"What?" Amy started to laugh, and Jack shrugged his shoulders. "No, no, I've just been having really bad migraines lately."

Jack's face immediately showed concern, and he moved closer. Resting a hand on her shoulder, he looked carefully at her face, eyes narrowed.

"You look tired," he concluded, "You can sleep in one of the cots if you like. I'll go get a few aspirins for you."

"Thanks Jack," she said gratefully, as he patted her shoulder once, and then ambled off to get the medical supplies. "That would be great."

She went to move towards the sleeping quarters, where a low snoring alerted her of John's presence, but stopped as she saw the bookcase. She headed towards it, a smile lighting up her face. Reaching out, she ran her fingertips along the spines of the books, and let out a low cry of joy as she recognised a few of them.

Pulling one out, she dropped her backpack to the floor and held the novel between her hands.

"You shouldn't be reading with a sore head, you know."

Amy spun around to see Jack, heading towards her with a glass of water and a box that presumably contained aspirin. He was smiling good-naturedly at her, and she grinned back at him, holding out the book.

"I remember reading this, when I was in high school. Had to do a book report too, if I remember correctly." She pulled a face. "'_To Kill a Mockingbird'_. Have you read it?"

Jack frowned at the book, and then took it in exchange for the glass and the box. He turned it over and read the back.

"Yeah, I think I have. Can't remember much of it, though."

Amy grimaced at the bitter taste of the aspirin as she swallowed a tablet, and took a gulp of water. She shrugged, and set the glass down on a cabinet.

"I've always loved it. Only got a 'B' for my report though."

She looked up at him and realised how tired he looked, so smiled and patted him on the shoulder before taking the book back and pushing it back into its original place.

"I'll see if I can get a few hours before the sun's up, huh?" She didn't wait for him to answer, but moved away towards the cots. "Thanks Jack."

"Yeah, good night Amy."

*** * ***

She hadn't expected to get to sleep. Her mind was whirling with questions, uncertainties and fear. She was scared. Scared that all this was coming back, scared that it did not bode well for her.

Why though? Why now, when she felt like she could settle in and lead a normal life, one without visions, why did it come back? She felt angry, upset that it was still running her life. Still _ruining_ her life.

Turning over onto her other side, Amy tried to sleep.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

Coming soon to a fanfiction near you: Chapter 4, with extra Ben! :D

GUESS WHAT? I have a BENJAMIN LINUS mousemat. :D  
It's so inspirational... although I tend to spend a lot of time just gazing at it, and not writing much... hehe.

Reviews always appreciated... feel free also to contact me with questions or ideas. Also, if you just want to chat about Ben Linus and all things LOST, get in touch; I'd love to hear from you. Probable update dates on my profile. Also a poll relating to this story. :)


	4. Chapter 4 Here We Go

**DISCLAIMER:**

I do not own LOST or any of its affiliated characters, settings... and the rest of it. I had to sell it because of the Credit Crunch, when I found out that "Credit Crunch" isn't just the name of a new cereal. True story. Fact is, LOST ain't mine – got it? Amy is my creation... like Frankenstein, only without the bolts and suchlike.

[In places, the dialogue is canon (from 'One of Them' [2:14] the glorious episode in which Michael Emerson got LOST for the first time), and therefore belongs to the brilliant writers of LOST, and I take no credit for it.]

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **

Thank you lovely reviewers!

Chapter 4, in which there is more Henry Gale, or Benjamin/Ben Linus, or Ben Gale, or Henry Linus, or Benry, or Benryjamin, or Henjamin, or Yoda, or Captain Bunny-Killer, or "that guy played by that guy out of Saw, you know, the one that played that Zep guy, with the creepy eyes", or the-artist-soon-to-be-formerly-known-as-Henry-Gale, or... whatever your moniker of choice is for that (rather delicious) man. So yes, it has _him_ in it, as promised.

Amy could hear Jack moving around in the kitchen area when she woke. John was speaking to him in a low voice, but Amy failed to catch the words.

Throwing her legs out of the cot, she reached for her backpack. A quick fumble through its contents let her confirm she'd taken everything, and she pulled out her journal. Crossing her legs beneath her, she scrawled a few lines into a fresh page, trying to get down what she'd seen minutes before waking.

_The plane crash, from a different angle, above a village..._

_Surprise, shock, _plans_._

She lingered over the last word. It had been particularly emphatic. After drawing a ring around it with her marker, she closed the journal and returned it to her backpack. Amy changed quickly into the clothes she'd worn yesterday and folded the blanket neatly. She heard Jack's voice growing louder with temper, and decided she'd better intervene.

"Hey guys," she said as breezily as she could manage, appearing in the doorway. "What's up?"

Both men turned at the sound of her voice, and fell silent. John excused himself quickly, and headed off to the computer, but offered her a warm smile and a nod as he passed. Jack still looked angry, his eyes staring at Locke's retreating back, but grit his teeth and gestured towards the kitchen area.

"Want some breakfast, Amy?"

She smiled at him, and settled down on one of the stools. "What's the time?"

Jack moved across to the cupboards and brought out a box of DHARMA cereal. "Lunchtime."

"Ah." Amy felt her stomach turn; not long to go now, she reminded herself. "I'll just have a bowl of, uh, DHARMA flakes then."

Jack grinned at her as he rummaged in the cupboards for a bowl. "So, how'd you sleep?"

She watched as he set the bowl down and proceeded to shake cereal into it. He looked up and met her gaze, eyebrows raised.

"Oh, er... okay, really." He brought out a sachet of powdered milk and began to prepare it. Amy watched uninterestedly, her thoughts elsewhere.

"And your head?" he asked over his shoulder. "Is it feeling any better?"

Amy answered that it hadn't been too bad, and allowed him to present her with the cereal, which she ate slowly. They talked together about the island, and the crash. Nothing important was said or asked. Amy felt the minutes ticking away in what would have been a comfortable conversation had she not known what the minutes were ticking down to.

Her mind wandered during the conversation, but not far enough to blank Jack's words out completely. She smiled in the right places, laughed a time or two and gave the appropriate responses. All the while though, her heart raced and her mouth felt dry despite the milk. If Jack noticed her discomfort, he chose either not to mention it or put it down to her migraines. She kept finding her mind returned to the same thing, repeatedly. Henry. There had been something... strange about him... something different. She felt almost sure he wasn't who he said he was, but that left a big problem – who exactly was he?

"So," came Jack's voice, startling her from her thoughts of the man in the net. "I don't think I've actually asked you yet - why were you on the plane?"

Amy went cold. So here it was, she had to lie again. Lie for her safety, lie for her acceptance into this society on the island. "I... er... I was visiting a friend," she said, possibly a little too quickly. "They were ill."

Jack nodded, and then looked at his feet. Entirely unasked, he continued the conversation. "I was taking my father's body."

Amy felt a twinge in her head.

_The smell of alcohol._

_A bitter father-son relationship._

"I'm sorry, Jack. I didn't know..." she let the apology trail off, selfishly feeling thankful that his distress meant he had not seen her wince.

"No, no, it's fine Amy." He looked up then, and picked up her empty bowl. He set it in the sink and leaned back against the counter.

"So, d'you mind taking a shift just now? I kinda want to get outside, go down to the beach."

Amy stood too, and shook her head. "That sounds fine Jack, just go. I can press a few numbers in every so often, I'm sure."

Jack nodded his thanks and walked towards the door. He turned, one hand on the doorway, "And that's 4, 8, 15—"

"16, 23, 42," she completed smiling. She pointed to the monitor, where a piece of paper had been taped to the corner, and raised her eyebrows. "John's put a copy of them there."

Jack nodded. "I'll be back soon."

Settling herself in the chair in front of the computer, Amy waved, and her worried wait commenced.

Amy was jerked out of a doze with the arrival of Sayid and Henry. _Henry_. When Sayid hurried in with the spluttering man on his back, he totally failed to notice Amy sitting at the computer desk. Ignoring her completely, he dumped Henry Gale down unceremoniously beside a cabinet and crept towards the cots to wake John. Amy hurried over to Henry, her stomach turning unsettlingly, and knelt next to his shaking body. He was filthy now, covered in dirt and blood. He was clearly in pain, reflexively curling into a fetal position on the floor.

"Hey, hey, hey," she whispered, carefully taking his shoulders in her hands and moving him into a sitting position, leaning against the cabinet, "Just relax, okay?" His blue eyes widened at the sight of her and he opened his mouth to speak. She shook her head jerkily, and saw his gaze flicker towards where Sayid had headed.

"Get away from him!"

Sayid's angry voice cut through her thoughts and she turned to look at him. She hadn't really spoken much to Sayid, despite being stranded together for eight weeks. He ran over to Amy, Locke following. Quickly, Amy stood and held her hands up calmly, turning to face Sayid.

"Sayid, the man's hurt, whoever he is," she tried to reason with him. "Look, we have to stop the bleeding... Jack..."

"No!" he barked, "He's one of them." Henry looked up in fear, but not before directing a glance towards Amy that she pretended not to notice. Sayid fixed her with a glare and knelt. Amy dropped to her knees and looked at the arrow protruding from Henry's shoulder. He looked up at her, eyes full of pain and fear – emotions she could tell were genuine. She rested a hand on his injured shoulder gently and tried to examine the wound.

Sayid pulled on his other arm painfully and met his gaze threateningly. "Who are you?" he hissed, his face close to Henry's.

"Henry," he gabbled nervously, "Henry Gale." His face contorted into a mask of pain as he tried to draw his eyes away from the arrow. "Ahh, my back."

John stood beside them, his arms crossed. "Sayid, maybe we should let Jack—"

Ignoring him, Sayid met Henry's eyes. "We're going to take it out, but first I want you to relax." Amy rolled her eyes, a gesture that went unnoticed by Sayid. He glared at Henry, who cringed at the attention. "How did you get to this island?"

"Four months ago," he muttered between gritted teeth, "We crashed, my wife and I." His eyes flickered towards his shoulder, then to all of their faces, and his voice dropped. "Please, please," his face was screwed up, and he seemed close to weeping. Amy felt a sharp twinge in her head.

_The submarine._

_A sense of years, not months._

_Liar._

"Crashed in what?" asked Sayid quickly.

Amy kept her head down, and focused on the injured man. She knew that Henry was not telling the truth, though the story was what he had told her. Trying not to think about this, she noticed she could see the sweat on his brow, and she unthinkingly wiped at it, and held her hand across it for a moment. His skin was hot against hers, with fear and probably the tension of his injury. He looked up at her, eyes wide with shock, and flinched as Sayid jerked at his arm again. The Iraqi's dark eyes were narrowed, and Amy met them angrily, her fingers lightly curling into Henry's shoulder. "Sayid, we need to get Jack. He's hurt, you can question him later."

Henry looked at her thankfully, but Sayid was having none of it. He repeated his question, louder, more forcefully.

"Crashed in what?"

Henry hung his head, face screwed up in pain. "A balloon. We were trying to cross the Pacific."

"Your wife, where is she?" demanded Sayid roughly.

This time, Henry met his eyes and tried to keep his voice steady. "She died. She got – she got sick three weeks ago. We were staying in a cave off the beach." He looked at his shoulder again; seemingly unable to take his eyes off it, or comprehend his predicament. "Ah, my _shoulder_." Sayid's face showed no pity or compassion, and he looked to John pleadingly. "At least untie my arms!"

"What the hell's going on here?" Amy's head snapped up at the sound of Jack's voice, and she looked to the door. The doctor ran towards the trio on the floor, and frowned at the injured man.

"Jack, thank God."

Sayid looked up calmly, and watched Jack as he rushed to Henry's side. "Rousseau trapped him in the jungle. She believes he's an Other."

Amy rested a comforting hand on Henry's uninjured shoulder as he looked at Jack, confused. His eyes flickered to hers, and again she saw that suggestion of knowledge beyond theirs, intelligence that seemed quite unexpected from him. Was he an Other? Amy searched his face for a clue but the guard was up again and she could read nothing in his expression but genuine pain.

"An other _what_?"

Ignoring the man's question, Jack's eyes focused on the arrow, and he tried to examine it.

"You shot him with an arrow?"

Sayid, standing now, spread his hands and replied lightly, "Do I have a bow?"

Amy felt Henry slump to the side, and she caught him gently. Jack's attention turned back to her: "Amy, you got him?"

At her affirmation, he gripped Henry by the shoulder and helped him drink some water. "Hey, hey, you with me?"

Amy held the injured man gently, thankful that he had given nothing away. Not that he was in any fit state to, but he had kept his mouth shut. Jack, still focused on the wound, threw a scathing glance over towards Sayid.

"What, you were just going to let him bleed to death?"

"I was trying to get honest answers while he was able to give them. And his wound is far from life threatening," answered Sayid coolly. Amy glared at him, her arm still wrapped around Henry protectively.

"We should let Jack treat him first, then we'll get our answers." John's voice was quiet, reasoning. Sayid fixed Jack with an intense glare.

"Jack, do not untie him."

Jack looked up at Sayid, about to argue, but Henry gave a groan of pain and writhed in Amy's grip.

His face still angry, Sayid marched off with Locke. Amy shushed the man in her grip, as he let out another quiet moan of pain, and turned to Jack. He was regarding her with a thoughtful look.

"What do you think?"

"I think, Jack," answered Amy quietly, "We should get the arrow out."

"Hold him there, Amy," Jack glanced up at her as she looped her arm around the back of his shoulders, carefully avoiding the arrow. "Tightly."

Amy pressed Henry closer to her, and he groaned in pain. "Sorry," she whispered to him, as Jack moved away to get things to help. "Sorry."

"You knew," came the cracked reply. It was not a question, but a statement; he had realized she had known he would be shot. Her silence confirmed it. She felt him shaking his head as Jack returned with a set of pliers and rolls of bandages.

"You got him?"

Amy nodded, and Jack knelt down in front of Henry, meeting his gaze. "I'm going to get this out, okay? You have to stay still." He deftly ripped the man's orange shirt, uncovering the wound. Blood had crusted around the edge of the arrow and dry flakes stuck to his heaving chest.

Henry whimpered pitifully as Jack raised the pliers to the arrow. He tightened the shaft of the arrow in the jaws of the implement and pulled the handles together. A dull crack made both Henry and Amy flinch. Looking up, she saw Locke and Sayid carefully watching the three of them.

"We've got an audience," she murmured, causing Jack to look over his shoulder.

"Yeah, well, they can watch all they want."

Amy frowned, a niggling feeling creeping over her. "They're planning something, Jack. I'd watch your back."

"Amy," he replied testily, "There's only one back I'm concerned with at the moment." He had tightened the pliers around the shaft again, and was waiting for her. She, in turn, tightened her grip on Henry, but was watching Sayid and Locke over Jack's shoulder.

With a defeated whine from Henry, Jack pulled the arrow from his shoulder and then pressed gauze to the wound. Henry's breathing was harsh and rasping, and Jack helped Amy lower him to the floor carefully. Amy watched Jack check Henry over, making sure everything else was okay, and was struck by a strange sensation.

Not quite déjà-vu, but more a sense of... déjà-vu in reverse. She wasn't thinking of the incident as something that was a repeat, but something that would _be_ repeated. Her head hurt badly, and she gripped a hand to it.

_Jack, operating on this man again._

_Dressed in doctor's scrubs, using sophisticated implements._

_A sense of future, but not too distant._

She opened her eyes to see Jack leaning over Henry and checking his breathing. Glancing up, she saw Sayid regarding her suspiciously. Locke was nowhere to be seen. Moving forwards, but feeling strangely lethargic, she started to tidy away the bandages and broken bits of arrow. Just as she reached for the pliers, Sayid's shadow fell over her. She looked up.

"Did he say anything while...?"

Jack looked up, almost angrily, and fixed Sayid with a hard stare. "No, he didn't. He was in shock."

Locke entered the room, and Amy felt her head twinge.

_Plans_.

She looked from Sayid to John, and then shook her head.

"We should put him in the armory, Jack." Sayid's voice was careful – not so much a suggestion but an order.

"...put _you_ in the armory," muttered Amy under her breath.

Sayid glared at her, and Locke cut in. "He's right. We can't just leave him laying here, Jack. If people see him it'll create a panic."

Jack looked at Amy, who shrugged. He turned back to the two men standing above him and nodded resignedly.

"It'll do. For now."

All three men stood, and began to lift Henry. Amy followed carefully, supporting his head. When they reached the armory, they set him carefully down on the floor. Jack stood and then looked to the sleeping quarters of the hatch.

"We can pull that cot in here." He said thoughtfully. "He shouldn't be on his back."

"Good idea," answered Locke. Sayid watched them move away, and then turned his attention to Amy who knelt on the floor next to Henry's prone body, trying to make him more comfortable. She rolled him onto his side, trying to replicate the recovery position. His breathing was harsh, shallow, but his heartbeat was slow and regular; he was simply in shock from the wound.

"Amy," Sayid's voice was low, and held a hint of warning. She looked up from Henry and raised her eyebrows at him. "Get out."

She opened her mouth to argue when he grabbed her by the collar and practically threw her out of the room. The door slammed shut behind her.

"No," she scrambled to her feet and rushed to the door, Jack following.

"Sayid, hey, what the hell are you doing?" shouted Jack, "Sayid! Sayid! Answer me!"

"Sayid!" Amy joined in, and watched as Jack starting twisting the dial of the combination. First to the left, then to the right, and back left again. He moved to open the door but it was stuck. Frowning, he quickly turned the dial again, repeating the combination; again, the door remained stubbornly stuck. Jack thumped his weight against the door, defeated. A sharp pain cut through Amy's head as he did so, and she leaned heavily against the door.

_Conflict, information, pain._

_Torture._

The sudden revelation frightened her. He was going to hurt Henry, torture him for information. She turned to Jack, slumped against the door.

"Jack, Jack, we have to get him out of there."

The doctor rounded on her, arms flying out to his sides in exasperation. "What the hell, just what the hell do you _think_ I'm trying to do, Amy?" he growled.

Ignoring Jack's outburst, she turned her attention back to the door. "He's gonna hurt him," she said quietly, "He's gonna hurt him."

Her fear turned to anger, and she thumped herself against the door, hurting herself but not caring. "SAYID, don't you dare touch him!"

"This has to happen. We have to let Sayid do this."

Locke's quiet voice surprised them both, and Jack whipped round and stared angrily at him.

"You changed it, John. Why would you change it?"

"Jack," Locke's eyes flickered to Amy's, equally angry expression. "Amy, this is what has to happen."

Yeah, John, thought Amy, _you_ know what's going to happen.

"Open it, John." Jack was trying to sound composed, cool, collected.

"No," Locke's voice was exactly what Jack's had failed to sound like. He nodded once at both of them and walked away from the two of them.

Amy stared after him, at a loss for words. Jack turned back to her, and they stared at each other in the silent hatch. There was no noise from the armory. Abruptly, Jack turned from her and stared at the bloody floor.

"We should clear up. C'mon."

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **

Blah. I'm sorry, I suck.

That wasn't at all what I promised. Although a little birdie (my muse) tells me there's going to be more Ben/Amy interaction in the next chapter.

Wow this is late. Like, a year…? And LOST is over and stuff but this story isn't! I'm moving the story on really slowly, I think; but it sort of needs to be like that because Ben isn't the most trusting man ever, and there needs to be time for development. But don't worry, I'm not waiting too long – this story is brought to you by a Ben fanatic and we all know he needs some _lovin'_, sooner rather than later.

Anyway, read and review, people.

Apologies in advance for any spelling mistakes; spell-check has deserted me for some reason, and I have to use the shriveled little organ in my skull.


	5. Chapter 5 Tentative Acquaintances

"You got the pliers there, Amy?"

Jack's voice cut through her thoughts. She turned away from the door, and looked down at her feet for the tool.

"Uh, no, don't think so. Sorry."

Jack stood, the blood-soaked rags in his hands. He opened his mouth to speak, but paused, hearing shouts from the armory. Rushing towards the door, Jack let out a frustrated sigh and looked at Amy.

"Crap. He's got them in there, doesn't he?" Not expecting an answer, he turned and hammered on the door.

_Torture_.

"Sayid!"

"Jack, leave it." Jack whirled around to find John standing behind him. He grabbed at the man's collar and pressed him firmly against the wall.

"Open it, John."

"Jack, this has to happen. Amy—"

His sentence was cut off by the timer starting to beep loudly. John turned his eyes to Jack, who stared but with no sign of moving.

"Amy," John's voice was only just kept from wavering, "Amy, get the button."

"No." she answered calmly, moving to stand beside Jack. Crossing her arms, she smiled fleetingly at John. "Give us the combination." His eyes darted between Jack and Amy, as if trying to verify the truth of their words.

"You wouldn't…" he breathed loudly, seeing no sign of them giving in. "You would risk all their lives…"

"The combination, John." Jack growled. "I don't give a damn about the button. It's yours now; you push it."

"Amy…" For a moment, John Locke just looked like a tired old man, pleading in vain. "Amy, you wouldn't – you can't…"

"I can, and I will, John."

_Flickering numbers  
click, click  
__Hieroglyphics?_

The timer beeping more insistently now, reaching under a minute. The intensified alarm seemed to break something within the man.

"Okay, left fifty-four…"

Jack shoved him towards the door.

"You do it."

Shooting an anxious look towards the computer, he hurriedly turned the dial with the correct combination before darting off to end the beeping.

Jack wrenched open the door and grabbed Sayid. Henry was sobbing on the floor, covered in blood and dirt. Amy rushed to help Jack with Sayid, and saw the state of Henry.

"Haven't you ever heard of the Geneva Convention, Sayid?" she shouted at the Iraqi as he struggled in her and Jack's combined grip.

"He's a prisoner, Sayid, not a punch-bag!"

Sayid shouted something unintelligible as he was hoisted out of the room. Then, regaining his composure: "He's lying!"

Henry's wide eyes darted to Amy, and again she saw that flash of knowledge beyond their own before Jack pushed the door shut.

* * *

"I don't think that's a good idea."

Jack sighed exasperatedly, his back to Amy. "Not a good idea, Amy? So we just leave him there, filthy?"

He stood over the sink, filling a small bowl with warm water. He dropped a rag into it with a small splash. Bandages sat on the drainer, and he gathered these into his hands along with the newly-filled bowl before turning to face Amy.

"No, that's not what I'm saying." Amy stood at the desk, her hand on the back of the chair Locke sat on. "What I mean is, why don't I go in?"

Locke turned to face her, his brow furrowed. He and Jack exchanged a glance.

"No, really, think about it. I'm the least threatening." She shrugged and spread her hands wide. "And we want him to talk, right?" Locke nodded, eyes thoughtful now, and Amy looked hopefully to Jack. "After Sayid's beat him up, I don't think he wants to see someone threatening. If I go in, it should be less hard to put him at ease."

"You can't argue with that, Jack." Locke stood from the desk and looked at the armory door. "If you – we – want him to talk now…"

Jack seemed to be weighing the matter in his mind. Finally, he reached his arm out, offering his supplies. "Here, take them. Clean the cuts as best you can and make sure the dressing is still on his wound."

"Thanks, Jack." She carefully took the bowl from his hand and piled the bandages in the crook of her elbow. She motioned to John to get the door.

"Wait, Amy." Jack took the gun from his belt and cocked it before handing it to her. "Take it. Just in case."

She raised her eyebrows at him but accepted the weapon, tucking it in the back of her pants. The combination clicked as John opened the door wide enough to let her through.

"Good luck," he whispered, tapping her on the arm.

_I'm not the one that needs it_, she thought sadly.

As the door was pushed shut, Amy turned her attentions to the man lying prone on the floor. She dropped the supplies onto the cot, and set the bowl of water at her feet.

"Henry?" she started tentatively, one hand outstretched to him.

"You knew." Again, no question. His raspy voice was flat and without emotion. He turned his face up to her, and she gasped. Now she saw the bruises that were livid on his skin, and she knelt immediately beside him, fingers reaching towards the injuries instinctively.

"Oh god, I'm so sorry… I—"

"Didn't see this coming?" Both on the floor, they looked at each other levelly now. His blue eyes were guarded yet probing, looking deep into her own open, expressive ones.

"Not until…" She stopped, careful, and drew back from him. Why had that slipped? She was usually so careful with her words, so hesitant at imparting knowledge which could be telling of her ability. She steeled her gaze and took a deep breath.

"Henry." She closed her eyes a moment, before looking down at the floor. "That's not your name."

The man's eyes grew wide, innocent, and he opened his mouth to argue. "I think you'll find—"

"… It is _not_ Henry." She cut across him. "Trust me, I know."

"_Trust_ you?" His voice was incredulous. "You're still asking me for that? After your… friend… After this?" He put a hand to his nose, where a deep cut sat over the bridge.

"He's not my friend. As soon as I—I didn't want this to happen to you." She exhaled loudly.

"Look, your name isn't Henry, is it? You…" she held a hand to her head as something flashed across her vision. "You're… you're a leader." She quickly searched his eyes for any reaction, and she caught him frowning slightly, almost imperceptively. "Yeah, that's it. A leader. People answer to you…"

Nothing now. The bruised man sat on the floor in front of her, face betraying nothing. She could see the salt tracks down his face from his tears, and the cut high on his forehead was still sluggishly leaking blood. She leaned closer, pleading with her eyes now.

"Please. Trust me. Trust me as the man with the tumor." He flinched, and began to speak before she cut him off again. "And please don't insult my intelligence by denying that. Again." To his credit, he remained silent. "What's your real name?"

The man regarded her coolly before a small smile crawled across his face. "A rose by any other name…" he quoted softly.

"Shakespeare." She identified, out of habit. Caught off-guard, he chuckled slightly at her speed, blue eyes losing a little of their coldness. "But for the record, you smell nothing like sweet."

"And whose fault is that?" He asked, thin eyebrows high.

She regarded him then, for a time, and he simply stared back, seemingly not uncomfortable with this attention. Finally, Amy reached behind her for the bowl. She took the rag from the water and wrung it out, before holding it for him to see. "Let me clean you up."

The man, the leader, squared his shoulders and titled his head to the left. He spread his arms wide, palms upraised. "Be my guest, Amy."

He was silent then, as she set about cleaning him. His face first, gently rubbing her rag across his bloodied and bruised skin. He hissed loudly as she touched her cloth upon his broken lip, and his hand flew up to catch her wrist. At his touch, something shot through her head.

_A birthday, a doll.  
A girl. Cherry blossoms.  
Innocence._

"Please." He stopped her. His tongue ran out and darted across the break in the skin, tasting the fresh tang of copper. "That's really… It– it hurts."

She pushed away what she had realized was a memory of his, and looked at his hand. He did not hold her tightly, but there was an undeniable strength in his wiry fingers. His grip was hot on her arm and she twisted out of it. "Sorry," she muttered, not meeting his eyes, moving to clean his cut cheekbone. The skin was purple there too, but the grime was shifting. Underneath it lay a scattering of fine stubble, and pale but sweaty skin.

"Amy. Do I… Do I frighten you?" The question was tentative, carefully asked. She looked at him then, his hands resting in his lap now and his shoulders slumped. His eyes were wary, a small frown between his brows.

"No, actually, you don't." She looked into his eyes as she said it and she saw a flash of something – contentment. Relief. She carried on, keeping his gaze. "You can't frighten me, because I don't know who you are. But that frightens me, the not-knowing. That frightens me plenty." After another second, she broke his gaze and continued cleaning.

Henry – or whoever he was – said nothing more for the remainder of her administrations. He did not even hiss if she touched a tender scar, only wince. Amy tried to forget how her skin had tingled as he'd touched it.

When she finished, sitting back on her haunches to admire her efforts, she hesitated before standing. Henry caught the hesitation and looked at her strangely. Something in his eyes, perhaps the tiredness that lay behind them, startled her and a sense of what she'd seen in the net came over her. When she spoke, she held his eyes and felt a sense of sadness wash over her.

"You've been on this island for years."

The man regarded her in silence. His blue eyes were thoughtful and he returned her look levelly and without fear. He reached to her hand and slowly removed the bloodied rag from her fingers, slick with both his blood and the water. Not breaking eye contact, he dropped the dirty scrap of cloth into the reddened water of the bowl at her feet. He handed it to her then, lifting it in both hands and offered with it, in a whisper, his first fragment of truth.

"I know."

* * *

**A/N:** DUN DUN DUN. Ben just told the truth? What is this coming to?

Hopefully the next chapter won't be so long in production. Found myself watching the Dr. Linus episode of series six today and I got the writing bug again, so this is the result. Think of it as a late Christmas present - hope you all had a great festive time and if I don't see you until then, I wish you the best for New Year also. Maybe 2011 will be a good year for "To Be Confirmed". :)

Feel free to drop a review and let me know what you think!


	6. Chapter 6 Quid Pro Quo

"Nothing, Jack, I'm sorry."

Amy sat at the kitchen table in the hatch, head in her hands. Jack paced beside her and Locke stood, leaning against the door to the armory.

"He must've said something, anything..." Jack ran his hands through his short hair and sighed irritably.

Amy turned to face him and offered him an apologetic look.

"Jack, I wish I could tell you differently but he's sticking to his story. Maybe it's because he's telling the truth."

She wasn't going to tell them. She'd decided it was best. Selfish, stupid, but best. She couldn't tell him, because she'd have to explain. And she'd spent her whole life dodging explaining, so she wasn't about to give up now. Why should they believe her, anyway? And what was there to tell – yes, he wasn't telling the truth but she had never sensed any danger about him. There was something in the man's eyes, something that intrigued her. But nothing that frightened her, nothing that made her feel unsafe. She couldn't explain it.

"What if he is an Other?" Locke spoke now, in a low voice. "What will we do then, Jack? You can't keep him there forever."

Jack turned on his heel and marched up to the older man. A fleeting anger danced across his face. "I know, John, I know! But we—"

Amy stood and moved towards the two men. "We can wait."

"Can we?" Locke looked doubtful. "If he's an Other, the longer we have him, the more suspicious his people will get, the more likely—"

"His people? Anyone who's on this island and didn't come on the plane is an Other, John. It's not unreasonable that he's telling the truth and he's alone."

"He did seem pretty convincing. We should keep him talking, though." Jack ran a hand over his chin, eyes fixed on the armory door. He looked tired.

Amy looked between the two men, then back to the armory door. "Is that it, then? We wait. Talk to him, see what he says. But we wait." Both Jack and Locke nodded. Amy smiled tiredly, and rubbed her eyes. "Well, if that's sorted I'm going to bed."

Jack turned to Locke, who volunteered to stay on watch. Jack muttered something about the beach and exited.

"Goodnight, John."

Locke settled himself at the computer desk and smiled kindly at her. "Night, Amy."

* * *

Amy lay in bed, doodling around her latest journal entry in the semi-darkness. She'd tried to explain the... vividness of her latest flash. The one with the girl, the doll. She touched Henry and the strength of vision... well, that was new. She underlined the entry then snapped the book closed. Henry. She had to speak to him again.

Carefully, she threw back the covers from her cot. Slipping out of bed, she rummaged around in a cupboard and took out a few items, folding them over her arm. The alarm had gone off ten minutes ago, and she'd heard John moving to correct it. Standing at the door now, she could hear his slow, steady breathing. So... asleep, or dozing. Close enough. Barefoot, she crept over to the armory door. It took her a minute to remember the new combination, but she dialled it in quickly. The door clicked loudly, and she held her breath.

Nothing. John moved slightly in his chair, but otherwise nothing. She breathed out slowly. As quietly as she could, she slid the door open and slipped inside, gently closing it behind her.

Henry was lying on the cot when she entered, a blanket pulled up to his chest, but his eyes flickered open as she sat with her back against the wall.

"No gun this time?" His voice was quiet. He turned his head to face her, hands resting on his chest. His blue eyes were calm, at peace. She frowned. How did he...? "You didn't click when you sat down." He raised his eyebrows. "I must admit I'm grateful, if not a little flattered."

She smiled, a little ruefully, and shook her head. "I told you I'm not scared of you."

The corner of his mouth twitched too. "Well, evidently, otherwise you wouldn't have sneaked in here without checking in at the front desk." The twitch pushed into a full smile, before an interested frown creased his brow. "Why was that, do you think?"

_curiosity, confusion.  
interest._

Eyes still focussed on her, he sat up stiffly, one hand supporting his shoulder. He pushed the blanket down with one hand, rolling it to his feet. The orange t-shirt he wore was still ripped and filthy, and she reached out to him, handing him the clothes she'd brought.

"Thought you could use these," she offered, ignoring his question. He took them from her, unfolding them, and eyed them appreciatively. In a few practised movements, he folded them neatly, laying the clean shirts on the cot.

"Thank you, Amy. I appreciate it." He set the clothes beside him, and swung his legs off the bed so he was facing her. Still sitting, Amy was aware of the imbalance of power between them – he, the prisoner, looking down at her. He seemed to realise this too.

"Could you stand up a moment, please?"

She did so, watching him carefully. He retrieved the blanket from his cot and, wincing as he moved his shoulder, spread it on the floor. One hand on the cot, he awkwardly lowered himself to the floor, and beckoned her to do the same. She stood her ground, and noticed how her hesitation seemed to displease him.

"Amy, please. Humor me." He sighed. "You'll catch your death standing barefoot on stone floors." Genuine concern was in his tone, and she moved to sit in front of him. "And I thought you weren't scared of me?"

"You surprised me." She admitted, curling her cold feet underneath her. Her fingers played with the hem of her thin sweater, and she nervously met his gaze.

He raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the cot, breaking their eye contact. "With common courtesy? It's a pity it seems such an unfamiliar concept. If we were in my house, I'd be a lot more courteous."

"You have a house?" Amy could not contain her surprise, and an element of excitement rose unbidden. She leaned towards him, trying to catch his gaze. "What's it like? Do you all have houses?"

He leaned forward, eyes unreadable. "You tell me." She was silent, and he leaned his head back again. "In any case, it was you who surprised _me_." He mused quietly. "Tell me, what did you come for? You wouldn't have to go behind both of your friends' backs just to bring me clean clothes."

"I'm not going behind anybody's back." Her reply was too quick, too defensive and she immediately kicked herself for it.

"The stealthy nature of your visit suggests otherwise." He countered levelly. She hung her head, and he did not press the matter. "So what did you come for?"

"Your honesty." She replied, after a moment's hesitation. "Will you tell me your name, at least?"

He snapped his head forward, and his eyes were playful now. "Do you think if you name me I'll disappear, like Rumpelstiltskin?"

She allowed herself a grin at that, and then shrugged. "I just... think if I name you, I could... maybe understand you. I'd have something concrete, at least. If I had your name I'd have something to hold."

He did not reply for a moment, but when he did his voice was serious. "Can we speak frankly, Amy?" At her nod, he hunched his shoulders, hands clasped between his crossed legs, and kept her gaze. "You appear to know things that are, to put it bluntly, impossible for you to know. I have been candid with you, at least as candid as this prisoner-captor charade allows me." He laid his hands flat on the blanket before Amy. "I propose a different arrangement, Amy."

"I'm listening."

"An exchange of information." He tilted his head to the side. "You tell me things, and I'll tell you what you want to know."

"Quid pro quo—" she couldn't hold back a smile, "—doctor?"

He raised his eyebrows and dipped his chin, the smile in his eyes. "All of the irony in our current parallel aside, it is as good a way as any to begin. Well?"

"Quid pro quo." She repeated, nodding. She did not offer her hand to shake, fearing another flash. She could tell him if he asked. "Ask away."

Henry eyed Amy for a moment, before taking a deep breath. "Forgive me for being so patently obvious with my first question, but I want to know how you know... everything."

Amy looked to the floor. How could she even begin to explain? She sighed, and her fingers occupied themselves twisting the hem of her sweater.

"Does it scare you?" she wasn't sure where the question came from, not entirely. Even Henry looked surprised. Neither of them said anything for a few moments, him thinking.

"Yes." He said eventually. "Yes, it scares me. Two days before you crashed on the island, I discovered I had a fatal tumor on my spine, and two minutes after I met you... you knew. That scares me."

Amy looked at him, and for a fleeting moment saw the emotion in his eyes. Normally guarded, now bare and expressive. He was scared.

"I'm sorry, I truly am." And she was. For reasons she could not identify, not fully, it frightened her – upset her even. "And you know what – it scares me too." She made an effort to answer his question. "Look, I'm not sure how to tell you. I'm not even sure why I'm telling you. Just..." She passed a hand over her face, frustrated at her lack of articulation. "Maybe I can show you."

She reached a hand out to him, palm upraised. "Touch me." His blue eyes met hers, confused. "Touch my hand," she insisted.

Henry, his eyes wide, tentatively touched his hand to hers, and she curled her fingers around his, feeling their warmth, the rough edge of his skin. They locked eyes, and Amy's mind whirled with a thousand thoughts. Fully focussing her energies on him, she found she could in some small way direct what she was looking for.

_Trees – a wood, birth- yet loss...  
The submarine.  
Bitterness.  
The smell of alcohol.  
No sense of belonging.  
Destruction, destruction.  
Loneliness, such loneliness.  
_

Amy gasped and took his hand in both of hers. Her eyes shut, she concentrated fully on him, this leader, this man. The intensity of the flash frightened her, and began to overwhelm her. Only fleeting thoughts could be picked from the storm of her vision.

_Something else... something...  
Hope.  
His name. His _name.

With a small cry, Amy collapsed on the blanket, her eyes closed.

"AMY!" Henry dropped her hands and knelt at her side, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. "Amy?" Panicked, he brushed her hair from her face and checked her breathing. He cradled her head in his arm, and patted her cheek anxiously, trying to wake her. "Come on, Amy, come on."

There was a commotion outside the door. Henry could hear Jack shouting something, and Locke's calming voice. He raised his voice as he heard the combination being turned.

"Guys? Amy's just… guys? A little help, huh?"

The woman in his arms stirred, and he looked down to her opening her eyes. She stared up at him, confused for a moment, and then she opened her mouth to speak. The door burst open and Jack ran into the room with a gun to find Amy lying curled in the arm of their prisoner.

"Amy! What the hell's going on? What did he do to you?" He dropped to his knees and pushed Henry away, supporting her to her feet. Locke stood in the doorway, ready to help.

"I…" She grasped her head and almost buckled as her legs weakened. Jack, moving forward, caught her quickly, lowered her to sit on the cot. "_Ahhh…_"

"What did you do?" barked Jack, pointing his gun at Henry with his free hand. Still sitting, Henry shuffled backward until he was against the wall, and then he raised his hands.

"Nothing, I swear… She… She just— I mean, it was..." He was gabbling, eyes darting to Amy, worried.

"Jack, no." Amy collected herself enough to defend Henry. She put a hand on his gun arm. "No, Jack, no. He didn't do anything. We were talking. I think I blacked out."

"What were you doing in here?" He did not lower his gun, or take his eyes from the prisoner.

"Talking. We were talking, Jack. Please." Jack turned to look at her, but seemed to not want to pursue the matter. She stood, accepting his hand to steady herself.

"You should put some socks on," Locke commented at the door of the armory, standing back to let them pass. "You'll catch your death on these floors, Amy."

Amy looked behind her, and tried not to grin as Henry's lips quirked into a small smile as Locke echoed his earlier words.

"Thank you." She said quietly, meaningfully.

Before the door closed Amy saw Henry nod once, a quiet smile in his blue eyes.

* * *

**A/N:** Another chapter? So soon? Who is this author and what have they done with ReaderFOUR?  
I do hope to be uploading more often, now that it's getting increasingly juicy. So I hope you all had a great New Year, consider this your gift to welcome you into 2011.  
Aaand I couldn't resist the Lecter reference. Forgive me.  
And I know every fanfic author out there says it, but reviews really do help me upload faster. Maybe because I feel guilty that sometimes you say nice things and I'm not writing anything... so if you want more, GUILT ME! Read and review! It's the only way! Exclamation!  
... and thanks to all of you that have stayed with the story so long. It means the world to me.


	7. Chapter 7 Moonlight Dancing

"I'm fine, Jack. I just haven't been sleeping. It all just caught up on me. I'll be fine."

She sat on the edge of her cot as Jack fussed over her. He handed her an aspirin and a cup of water, which she took thankfully.

"Why did you go in alone?" he asked quickly, still standing above her.

"I thought he might talk to me."

"So did he?" Jack began to move away from the bed, not looking at her. "Come on, Amy, tell me how your private little pajama picnic went." He sounded… angry, yes, but jealous, too.

"_Jack_. He was telling me about his wife," she invented, knowing innately that there was no such woman. "I think he's harmless." That, at least, was mostly truth. Jack said nothing. "Look, I'm sorry, Jack. I thought he would talk to me. Just me, maybe if he thought I was doing it against your wishes. And maybe it was stupid, so I'm sorry." She let out a deep breath.

Jack returned to her and took the empty cup from her hands. "Okay, Amy. Sorry. You should really get some sleep."

She smiled slightly. "I think I'll just have a shower. There's no point in trying to sleep now."

"Fair enough," he replied lightly. "I'm going to start breakfast."

* * *

After her shower, Amy ate with Jack. John's shift was over and she could hear him snoring from the kitchen. The conversation was slow, but Jack did not ask any more questions about Henry. He asked her about her home life and she tried to answer as honestly as she could, drying her hair with a towel as she spoke. She had changed into a clean shirt and khakis, to start the morning feeling refreshed. Finishing up, she stood and shook out another bowl of muesli.

"I should give this to Henry."

Jack frowned. "John normally gives him his meals."

"It's not John's shift. And anyway," she added with a smile, "If we're up early, he might as well be too."

He smiled at that, and went to open the armory door as she retrieved another spoon from a drawer. She walked back to where Jack with standing, one hand on the door handle, and shook the spoon at him, signaling him to open the door.

Their prisoner obviously hadn't slept. He was sitting up, having heard the combination turn. Amy was pleased to see he had changed into the clean clothes she had provided. He looked comfortable dressed in the lightly striped shirt and the plain t-shirt underneath.

"Good morning," he said as she entered the armory. "How are you?"

"Fine, thank you." She answered, handing him the bowl of cereal. He took it gratefully and picked up the spoon.

"How's your shoulder?" asked Jack from the open doorway. "Better?"

He shrugged, spoon in hand, and then winced. "_Ow_. Obviously not well enough to do that, but not as bad as it was, at least. Mainly stiff." He began eating, eyes darting between Jack and Amy. He nodded to Amy. "Are you staying to chat?" He asked around a mouthful of cereal.

"I'm… uh…" Amy turned to Jack, the question in her eyes. Jack motioned her to come closer.

"We said you wouldn't come in alone." He said quietly.

"He wants to speak. That's a good sign, isn't it?" Amy pressed quietly. Before Jack could open his mouth again, the alarm went off, and the insistent beeping startled them both. Amy knew she would need to act quickly. "Jack, let me try. If I don't get anything useful speaking to him just now… I won't go in again. Please?"

Jack seemed to weigh up his options, glancing over at the computer. "Yeah, okay," he finally said, "But if you get nothing, we're abandoning your tactic."

"Thanks Jack." She smiled, turning back to the prisoner as Jack closed the door behind her.

"Benjamin." She said quietly, leaning back against the wall with her arms crossed in front of her. "Your name is Benjamin."

He looked up at her, quietly shocked. He quickly swallowed his remaining cereal and set the bowl aside. "Benjamin Linus," he said, his eyes wide. "Ben. I'd shake your hand, but… well."

"Thank you, Ben." She whispered, "Sincerely."

"What happened last night, Amy?" He seemed worried. "Were you okay? What was that?" His smile was a little self-aware as he realized he was asking too many questions.

"I told you, Ben." She said, sighing. "I'm…" She gestured with a hand. "It's hard to explain… It's like…."

"A power?" There was interest in his eyes.

"It's not a power, Ben!" Her voice was louder than she had intended, and she pressed a hand to her temple. "Sorry. I just… don't… I don't feel powerful. I feel weak. I don't control it, it controls me. I—" Her voice cracked, and she could feel tears in her eyes. _Stupid, stupid_.

"Amy," Ben's voice was gentle, and she looked up. He patted the cot beside him. "Sit with me." Wiping her eyes with the palm of her hand, she obeyed. Sitting close to him, she could feel the warmth of him, smell the jungle in his skin. He put his arm around her, hesitant at first, but then with more confidence as she moved into his body. There was a touch of something she could not quite place, as well as the familiar scent of copper and smoke as she rested her head against his chest.

"It _hurts_ me, Ben."

"I know," he said softly, "I know." He seemed to struggle with himself, before speaking next. "You—you scared me last night, Amy." The words seemed to tumble out without his permission. She felt him hold his breath after this, but when she pressed closer into his shirt, he breathed a small sigh of relief. They remained like that for a few moments, comfortable in the silence.

Ben turned his head to the side, regarding her interestedly. "So that's how you know things? Like a sort of… mental vision?"

"I call them flashes." She muttered, not looking at him.

"And do you normally black out?"

"No." she shook her head, frowning. "No, that was new. It's… it's stronger with you, Ben." Her voice was soft. She looked up, looked at the man she knew so intimately, more intimately than anyone else, and yet not at all. She removed herself from his half-embrace and regarded him thoughtfully. "You make it different."

Wide eyes. "Why _me_?"

She shrugged, looking away now, and both of them were silent for a few moments. He waited patiently, letting her compose herself.

"Do you want to ask your question?" he suggested, after a time.

What should she ask? He was looking at her, waiting for a response. "Who are you?"

"You call us Others, I believe?" She nodded, and he did too, a wry smile on his lips. "Well, we've been called a lot worse. We live on this island, protect it, and we don't want to hurt anyone. We're the good guys, Amy." His eyes were sincere as he said it, and she decided she didn't even want to ask about the bad guys.

"And you're the leader?"

"I am… one of them, yes. I answer to someone else, ultimately," he added quickly, smiling self-consciously, "but yes, I lead the Others as you know them."

"And you have houses?"

"Yes, we have houses. We have a little community, even. That's the Barracks, where we live. Where I live."

"So this Henry business…?" she prompted, frowning.

"There was a man called Henry Gale, and his story is the story I first gave you." Ben clasped his hands together in his lap, and continued. "He was from Minnesota, trying to cross the Pacific and his balloon crashed. He died."

"I don't see why you need to continue to lie to Jack and John."

"Because they need to continue to disbelieve me." He answered quickly. "I think you know yourself why I needed to be him, and not me."

Amy nodded absently, mulling this over. "Wait, so there's a balloon, somewhere on this island?"

"Yes, in a small clearing, not too far from here." He looked at her, and then grinned. "It has a big smiley face on the top of it."

Amy didn't smile. "Ben," she said seriously, turning to fully face him. "Jack won't let me in again, not alone, unless he thinks we're getting somewhere."

"Well, I certainly wouldn't like that." He said, eyes flickering to the door and back to her. "What are you suggesting?"

"A map." She said simply. "Draw a map to the balloon. Let them find it, verify your story." She shrugged. "At the very least, it'll buy us time."

"I will be leaving soon, Amy. Escaping. I think you know that."

"I… I know." She looked at her feet.

"Did you see it?"

"No, Ben. No, I didn't. I know because I'm going to help you." She held up a hand as he opened his mouth to speak. "That's something I've decided. Let me help you."

For a long moment, Ben regarded her, trying to find the insincerity in her face. There was none. By nature, he was not a trusting person, and he had already found himself slipping on his usual policy with this woman. His eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"Because when you were hanging in a net in the middle of a jungle, you trusted me." She said, her voice soft. "You didn't want to, didn't need to, but you did. And you kept that trust when you got shot through the shoulder with an arrow, and beaten up, tortured and interrogated. That's why, Benjamin Linus. Because I'd be a fool not to trust you."

His face cracked into a wide smile, and he pressed his index finger to his lip as it reopened with the rapid movement. "Thank you, Amy. That… that means a lot. Really."

She smiled back at him, and touched him gently on the forearm, careful only to touch the material. For reasons she could not fathom, the flashes were stronger than usual with him, at skin-to-skin contact, and it felt like she was prying.

"So, what's it like there? At the Barracks." There was excitement in her voice, a reflection of his earlier interest in her ability. "Do you have stuff… to do?"

"Oh yes." His pale blue eyes were wide, and a small smile played around his thin lips. "There's moonlight dancing every other week."

She laughed then, softly, and he realized how much he liked to make her laugh. Amy shook her head and turned her head to look at him. He was smiling, looking at her with something… unreadable in his eyes. His eyes dropped and he reached for her hand. He hesitated before touching it, waiting until she nodded before their skin touched again, and she felt only one tiny flash before it was gone.

_Hope._

By focusing only on the touch, the actual physical bond between them, she found she could ignore the usual mental impressions she felt. This was new, too. She looked up at him, surprised.

"I can do it." He looked at her quizzically, and she lifted their entwined hands for him to see. "Look, I'm not… seeing anything, getting thoughts. I think I can choose not to." She frowned, then looked at him with a smile spreading across her face. "How do you do it? You make it so different." Ben smiled at her excitement, and shook his head, pulling at her hand lightly.

"Amy," he said carefully, "May I ask a question? Beyond the 'quid pro quo' conditions?"

She frowned. "Of course."

His eyes were wary now, and she sensed a little fear in them, too. He took a deep breath, and held her hand tighter. "Will… Amy, will you come with me, when I leave?"

She looked at him, and realized – the hope, the pure, shining hope she'd felt in her flash could have been from either of them. Hope. And this, this leader, Ben, asking nervously a question there was only one answer to.

"Yes, Ben." She said softly, a smile spreading across her face. "Yes, I think... I think I'd like that."

She watched as Ben's tongue flicked out of his mouth and touched the bead of blood on his broken lip. "Thank you," he replied, squeezing her hand gently, before letting go. He stood up, supporting his shoulder before pulling Amy to her feet too. "Now, if you would be so kind as to give me a pen and paper, I will draw this map for you."

* * *

**A/N**: Two chapters in as many days! I know, I know. Get me.  
I know this isn't as fluffy as hoped, but I don't see the relationship progressing as that. Not in the early stages, at least... It's not in Ben's character. He's more hesitant, careful. I think they both are.  
But, believe me, there will be fluff soon. Lots of it, tons of it; this fic might just get more fluffy than a bunny with the number 8 on its side! Hope you enjoyed, and reviews inspire me.


	8. Chapter 8 Leaving

"It's a map, Jack." Amy shook it in his face, smiling. "One genuine, authentic balloon-recovery map."

Jack grinned at her, and raised his eyebrows. "You did it."

"Did what?" asked Locke, from the kitchen sink.

"Got you a map, my good sir." She watched as Locke came over, wiping his hands on a dish-towel. He looked over her shoulder at the map on the table. "Look," she continued. "All you have to do is follow the squiggle and it'll lead you to his balloon. He says it's got a big smiley face on the top."

"A big smiley face, huh? Well, I'd have a big smiley face if I managed to lead my captors right into a trap…" said John, not looking altogether convinced. He picked up the paper and considered it. "I know this bit, though…" he continued, pointing to an area of the map. "… and this part looks legitimate." He looked to Jack, who shrugged. "Well, I don't know. It could be alright."

"Worth giving it a try, isn't it?" asked Jack, taking the map back. "I mean, even if it's a trap we get our answer." He looked towards the door of the armory, then back to Amy. "How'd you get it out of him?"

"I just explained his predicament." Not a lie, not a lie. "I told him what you might do if he didn't give us something to work with."

Nodding, Jack looked at the map again. "It does look pretty legit." He stood, map in hand. "I'm going to speak to Sayid. See what he thinks." He left the hatch.

"Well, Amy," said John, turning to her. "I'll take a shift if you want to get some sleep."

"Thanks, John," She smiled, "But I think I'm going to go a walk."

* * *

Amy walked through the jungle, only half-aware of where she was going. The trees were green, so intensely green after the dim light of the hatch. She heard birds calling loudly and the ocean behind her. Gradually the sounds lessened as she found herself continuing deeper, deeper into the forest. Eventually she arrived at the small clearing where Henry had been strung up in the net.

Smiling, she kicked over some of the fallen leaves to reveal a half-eaten mango, rotting now in the heat. The net still lay on the ground, left by Rousseau. For a moment she stood, savoring the silence, and then she knelt on the ground. She reached her hand towards the net and touched it tentatively. Nothing. She gripped it in both hands and concentrated.

_Shock.  
A baby, dark-haired.  
A young girl.  
Who was Alex?_

With an effort, she managed to stop the flash. She could do it. She could control them. Ben did make it different. That seemed to be the only explanation. Ben had helped her, and she was in a position to help him. The decision was made. Hoisting her pack higher on her shoulder, she turned back to the beach.

She had almost reached the edge of the jungle when she heard them, not too far off to her left. First Jack's voice, loud, and then Charlie's, then a murmur that must have been Sayid. She veered left, jumping through the foliage without much grace.

"Jack?"

The three men were carrying packs, and Jack held the map in his hand. He turned as she appeared on the track behind them.

"Alright, Amy?" grinned Charlie, then he turned to Jack. "Is she coming?"

"Amy, I thought you were staying at the hatch." He said, coming closer. He was frowning.

"I just went for a walk. I was headed for the beach." she replied, "Where are you going?"

"Following your map," Charlie piped up.

Jack nodded, confirming it. "There's no point wasting time."

"Well, of course, I want to find out he is a liar sooner rather than later." Said Sayid, eyes narrowed towards her. She ignored him.

"I didn't realize you'd be going so soon," she said honestly, to which Jack shrugged. "I'll go back to the hatch, if you like?"

"Would you?" asked Jack, gratefully. "I mean, I'm sure John can manage, but for the sake of fair shifts and keeping this quiet… Well, it'd be easier." He gave her a tired smile.

"No problem," she smiled back, "I'll just get some stuff from the beach and go straight back."

"Right." He clapped her once on the shoulder then turned, beckoning the other two men to follow him. "See you later." He threw over his shoulder.

"See ya!" said Charlie with his usual cheer. Sayid nodded to her once, and followed on.

"Good luck!" she called after them, a sinking feeling in her stomach. _Tonight, then.  
_

"Ben?" Amy turned the combination to the armory and opened the door wide, sticking her head in. He was sitting on the cot, reading. He looked up at her, a smile touching his bruised face. "Ben, Jack's gone to find your balloon tonight. We're leaving." Without waiting for his answer, she hurried away and retrieved her pack from the sleeping quarters. First, she tucked her gun into the back of her pants.

Sorting through the mess of her belongings, she selected only the most essential; her journal, some loose papers, a few books. Opening a cupboard, she began taking her things from it and throwing them haphazardly into her bag.

"If you folded them, you'd maximize your storage space." Came a soft voice from behind her.

Amy turned quickly, straightening. Ben stood in the doorway, smirking at her. It was strange to see him standing in the hatch, not in his usual containment of the armory. He did not look out of place, just… strangely comfortable, like he should have been there. Like he belonged there. She could see he still held his right shoulder awkwardly, a little higher than the other one. She could not shake the feeling of his belonging, though, and something jolted through her skull.

_A different type of hatch.  
Headphones, video monitors.  
Jack? Why Jack?_

At her wince, he moved closer. "What was that?" he said quickly. "Did you see something?"

"I don't know," she muttered, turning back to the bed and emptying out her pack. "Nothing relevant, anyway." Distractedly, she reached to fold the shirts, but he caught her hand.

"Allow me to pack," he said, raising his eyebrows at her, "Or I suspect we will be here for long enough. You could get food." He added, pointing her towards the dining area.

She nodded, too elated by the feeling of his hand against hers to take offence at his insinuation, and went to the kitchen. Ransacking the cupboards, she collected some Dharma-branded food; things they could eat on the way, things that wouldn't be missed.

"We don't have long," she called through to Ben, stuffing some granola bars in a small knapsack she had looked out for him. "Maybe only half an hour, an hour tops."

"What did you do to John?" came the reply. She could hear the amusement in his voice.

"What did I do to him?" she repeated, feigning shock at his accusation. Food supplies sorted, she moved over to the bookshelf. "Oh, thank you very much. Actually, as it happens, he had to go down to the beach. Fix something for Claire, I think he said."

"Claire?" the voice was interested, now.

"She was on the plane, a nice girl, pregnant." Her finger skimmed over the spines of the books, searching for something to take with her. "Gave birth a few weeks ago to a little boy, Aaron."

"We have a sufficiently extensive library at the Barracks, you know." She turned again, to find Ben standing with the full pack on his good shoulder, smiling amusedly at her. Not giving her a chance to reply, he held up her journal in one hand. "What's this?"

She moved forward to meet him, and plucked it from his fingers.

"My journal."

"May I—?"

"You _mayn't_." she said with a smile, tucking it into the knapsack. He sighed theatrically, and looked around. His face grew serious.

"So this is it. You're leaving."

Amy looked around too, sadly. She was leaving. She'd made this decision. She was helping him escape. What would they think? They had been nothing but kind to her, for the most part. _No,_ she told herself. _I can't regret this. This is my decision. _Yes, this was her decision. Her ability made her an outcast, or at least made her feel like one. As soon as the first flash in the tent, she knew she'd have to leave, or face more hiding, more secrets. And… with Ben, it was just accepted. No secrets, nothing to hide. She felt safer with him.

Still, one last thing to do. Going back to the cupboards, she made up a bowl of cereal and walked over to the armory. Concentrating, she took one step into the small room and appeared to trip, dropping the bowl onto the floor. It smashed, its contents splashing all over the concrete. Carefully stepping around the mess, she pulled the blanket to the floor, dropping it in a heap, creating the appearance of a confrontation and an ensuing struggle.

Ben watched her silently as she approached him. "Turn around, please." He did so, and she took out one of her now neatly folded shirts, crumpled it, and threw it on the floor of the bedroom. Again, she dragged the blanket to the floor as if she had been forced to pack her things. "There."

"Ready now, Amy?"

She looked at Ben, the leader of the Others, the man she trusted. His eyes were careful, seemingly looking for second thoughts from her. He stood before her, one hand supporting the pack's strap on his uninjured shoulder.

Amy nodded. Yes. Yes, she was ready. He gestured for her to go first. With a pang of sadness, she opened the blast doors and headed out of the hatch, away from the castaways.

"Overpowering you when you had your hands full…" Ben quipped as they left. "Well, that was certainly very clever of me, don't you think?"


End file.
